tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59238967962414684422024-03-14T00:36:55.859-05:00The Lucerne ProjectA multimedia project from 2009-2011 documenting personal narratives about people I've never met, in a place I've never been.Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-64461040251210730092012-04-24T11:54:00.000-05:002012-04-24T11:54:40.257-05:00Lucerne in Missouri<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was in St. Louis, Missouri, a few weeks ago, and as I was walking around one of the older neighbourhoods, I saw this doorway:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AHNiEeZWwRk/T5baLuOHj0I/AAAAAAAAIJ0/FO1aSfJmKzM/s1600/lucerne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AHNiEeZWwRk/T5baLuOHj0I/AAAAAAAAIJ0/FO1aSfJmKzM/s640/lucerne.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Apparently a lot of people emigrated to St. Louis from Switzerland at the end of the nineteenth century.</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-34916346801203076012011-12-06T16:34:00.001-06:002011-12-06T16:36:19.976-06:00The Postcards Have Sailed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Or rather, flown: I finally mailed the postcards collected from the Special Event, written by visitors to the gallery during October/November:<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SyJw08ceroE/Tt6Yl46wNUI/AAAAAAAAF4g/nJTCXjrWeXk/s1600/DSCF0744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SyJw08ceroE/Tt6Yl46wNUI/AAAAAAAAF4g/nJTCXjrWeXk/s400/DSCF0744.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The next step will be to see, during the coming months, if any of the recipients will reply to the email address on the back of the card.<br />
<br /></div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-37415140324033053402011-10-18T12:51:00.002-05:002011-10-18T12:51:45.498-05:00Interview & article<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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From "The Columbia Chronicle". Click the image to display it at a more legible size.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bCV2orQH7Js/Tp28dX1PJII/AAAAAAAAFJ0/MCVBPUa_kcA/s1600/ChronicleArticle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bCV2orQH7Js/Tp28dX1PJII/AAAAAAAAFJ0/MCVBPUa_kcA/s640/ChronicleArticle.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-40330122712189422492011-10-02T21:21:00.001-05:002011-10-02T21:21:27.780-05:00Installing the exhibition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<embed flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=https%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2FPhilipAnthonyHartigan%2Falbumid%2F5659052855318634193%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" height="267" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400"></embed>
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On view at Finestra Art Space, Chicago: October 2nd to October 30th, 2011. Hours: <a href="http://www.finestraartspace.com/contact.html">link here</a>.</div>
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Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-73274766903336523442011-08-23T12:52:00.000-05:002011-08-23T21:42:13.157-05:00The Mount Pilatus Railway<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>from an imaginary Lucerne travel diary</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We were halfway up the mountain, hanging almost vertically off its side in the old cog railway, when the person sitting next to me in the train said: “I’m going to be sick.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn’t feeling too well either. The ascent had been fun at first, with a great wide view of the town below the mountain gradually emerging through the clouds, as the carriage pulled up and away from the boarding station. The train inched upwards at a steep angle, but it was no worse than other funicular railways I had travelled on in other parts of the world. The chain car that takes you up to Pest, as in ‘Budapest’, is pretty steep, too, and that didn’t give me the vertigo that everyone had warned me about. Like the other twenty or so people in the carriage, I was enjoying the sights, snapping the occasional picture, listening to the murmur of the engine and the ‘tock’ of the gears as they moved the car closer to the mountain top.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Then the angle changed, as if we were all sitting on a see-saw and the heavy kid had plopped himself down on the opposite end. Gradually it dawned on me that this is what people meant when they said: Oh you must take the railway to the top of Mount Pilatus. Instead of looking at a town that was definitely below me but sort of ‘over there’, I realized that my view of Lucerne was interrupted by my toes. Even though we were all secured in our seats, instinctively I grasped the arms of the seat tightly. Most people emitted gasps or mock shrieks of fear. Little children squealed. Their mothers made faces, their fathers told them to behave, that there was nothing to worry about. With all the noise, at first I didn’t hear the person next to me. Then I heard him again: “I’m going to be sick.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I looked at him. He was a young man, with a narrow head, spiky hair, and an untidy ginger beard. He wore long khaki shorts and a purple cut-away t-shirt, revealing muscular arms that, like his face, were burned red from the sun. I guessed from the heavy walking boots and the small but efficient backpack squeezed between his calves that he was that ubiquitous person: the student backpacker, the roaming idealist, taking the modern version of the Grand Tour before immuring himself at university to study law or accounting. Not an unpleasant looking guy, though, by any means. His general air of outdoors ruggedness and his weather-beaten flesh made me surprised by his reaction to the funicular ride.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Are you sure?” I said.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes,” he whispered, leaning forward and pressing a hand against his belly. His face was turning worryingly pale, the sunburned flush suddenly gone.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Can you hold on? We’re nearly there,” I said.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t know.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Let me see if I have a — “</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I tried to think of the German word for ‘paper bag’, but couldn’t. I rummaged around in my shoulder bag. Nothing there. I leaned across the aisle and gently tapped the arm rest next to a thin-faced man.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“This guy thinks he’s going to be sick. Do you have a — ?” I imitated opening a paper bag and being sick into it. The thin-faced man grimaced at me like I’d just done the deed myself, and he looked away in disgust.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Thanks a lot,” I said. I turned back to the backpacker. “Look, you’ll just have to hold on — “</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Before I even finished the sentence, the backpacker lurched forward, loudly retched, and released a torrent of vomit into the space between his knees .The stream was so copious that it splashed down the side of his backpack and pooled on the floor, where, due to the angle of the carriage, it trickled under the seat in front and started to snake quickly down the train. I pulled my knees up and to the right, not quickly enough to avoid getting some flecks of carroty puke on the sides of my shoes. The warm, moist, sweet odour of vomit reached my nostrils, and as my gorge rose, I covered my nose and mouth with my hand to stifle my gag reflex. Other people in the carriage were not so lucky. The second that the backpacker was sick, people started reacting like someone had let off a bomb in the train. They raised their feet to avoid the river of vomit snaking their way. Forgetting the angle of the train, some of them stood up to get out of the way and fell to the side onto their neighbours. Others, upon receiving the smell of the vomit, started retching too, and within a few minutes of the backpacker’s moment of misfortune, the carriage was filled with the sound of people being sick, people shouting, people slipping on the vomit and falling to the floor. One woman landed on her behind, put her hands on the floor to steady herself, realized that her left hand had gone straight into a puddle of sick, looked in horror at her hand, then vomited too, with a loud ‘quack!’, as violently and suddenly as if she’d been punched in the stomach. A small boy about three seats down from me let loose into the lap of the adult seated beside him. People at the front of the train, that is to say, above me, started to bang on the windows, trying to break the glass in a futile attempt to escape. Meanwhile, the backpacker sat slumped against the window, his head bowed, a skein of vomit hanging down over his bearded chin.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Are you ok?” I said. He nodded, though clearly he wasn’t. I patted him on the shoulder. “We’re nearly there. We’ll get you some help soon.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The train made its final upward push into the station at the top of the mountain, easing against the platform with a loud burst of air from the brakes. The doors opened, and a pre-recorded announcement came on telling us to mind our step. The train company employees in their neat uniforms couldn’t believe what they were seeing as the train disgorged its passengers, most of them stained with vomit in some way, some of them being physically supported by their companions, limping, dazed, like the survivors of a disaster. When it was our turn to leave, I helped the backpacker to his feet, and carried his rucksack to the platform, holding it out to one side to avoid getting any more regurgitated stomach contents onto my clothes. I guided him to a bench set against the wall of the ticket office. A couple of train company employees looked into the train through the doors, then started backwards, repelled by the smell. The line of people waiting behind a rope to board the train for the descent began to ask impatient questions of the uniformed personnel. I turned to the back-packer one last time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“I need to clean up,” I said, waving at my shoes. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing deeply. He shook his head, and said: “No. Thank you.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Out on the mountainside, someone was welcoming the new batch of tourists by blasting away on an Alpine horn. I started walking towards the men’s room, slipping my hands into my pockets to protect them from the cold mountaintop air. I felt the little lion on a keychain that I had bought a day earlier, and rubbed it between the tips of my fingers, hoping that it would bring me better luck on the train journey back down to Lucerne.</span></div>
Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-81311287202366899572011-08-10T11:25:00.000-05:002011-08-10T11:25:00.461-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 37<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EKggrE71aOY/Tj2_Wz6SzzI/AAAAAAAAEbs/K-I_yUuIDWA/s1600/61-c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EKggrE71aOY/Tj2_Wz6SzzI/AAAAAAAAEbs/K-I_yUuIDWA/s400/61-c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display a larger image</td></tr>
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Found internet images, paper-litho transfer prints, four colours, on BFK Rives printmaking paper.</div>
Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-19622559034215510072011-08-08T11:24:00.000-05:002011-08-08T11:24:00.144-05:00From a 100 page accordion book: 36<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dhLKQGzY3c0/Tj2_Dm21SLI/AAAAAAAAEbo/QMWdoCaQOA8/s1600/61-b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dhLKQGzY3c0/Tj2_Dm21SLI/AAAAAAAAEbo/QMWdoCaQOA8/s400/61-b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display a larger image</td></tr>
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Found internet images, paper-litho transfer prints, four colours, on BFK Rives printmaking paper.</div>
Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-23261899770934412092011-08-06T17:23:00.002-05:002011-08-06T17:23:45.456-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 35<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hx5gbd6N1kk/Tj2-ybF18QI/AAAAAAAAEbk/nXzQGqj5L_Q/s1600/61-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="156" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hx5gbd6N1kk/Tj2-ybF18QI/AAAAAAAAEbk/nXzQGqj5L_Q/s400/61-a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger image</td></tr>
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Found internet images, paper-litho transfer prints, four colours, on BFK Rives printmaking paper.</div>
Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-70364209933734489052011-07-24T14:09:00.000-05:002011-07-24T14:09:31.483-05:00October exhibition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DNPeWBO5LEc/Tixtt5r3nwI/AAAAAAAAERU/9KlNMrfK0hc/s1600/HartiganWithText01+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DNPeWBO5LEc/Tixtt5r3nwI/AAAAAAAAERU/9KlNMrfK0hc/s1600/HartiganWithText01+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div>
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Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-17711787624325973972011-07-22T14:56:00.000-05:002011-07-22T14:56:00.540-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 34<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MGj2YOnk1F8/TiYLX1xx6LI/AAAAAAAAEMQ/unNRQe2AWw8/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="98" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MGj2YOnk1F8/TiYLX1xx6LI/AAAAAAAAEMQ/unNRQe2AWw8/s400/03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Found internet images, paper-litho transfer prints, two-colours, on BFK Rives printmaking paper.Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-35762612302059635932011-07-21T14:54:00.000-05:002011-07-21T14:54:00.950-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 33<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RTJFkLnHdWo/TiYLDnXH8JI/AAAAAAAAEMM/oiVJ_X_JJVs/s1600/07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RTJFkLnHdWo/TiYLDnXH8JI/AAAAAAAAEMM/oiVJ_X_JJVs/s400/07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger image.</td></tr>
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Found internet images, paper litho transfer prints, two colours, on BFK Rives printmaking paper.Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-60558920866462457612011-07-20T14:52:00.000-05:002011-07-20T14:52:00.104-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 32<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GuUzWkcJe60/TiYKoWR2f0I/AAAAAAAAEMI/Tl5hnwd1r3o/s1600/02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="345" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GuUzWkcJe60/TiYKoWR2f0I/AAAAAAAAEMI/Tl5hnwd1r3o/s400/02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger image.</td></tr>
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Found internet images, paper-litho transfers, two-colours on BFK Rives printmaking paper.Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-87183436312124771642011-07-19T17:51:00.001-05:002011-07-19T17:51:28.854-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 31<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jji_v8rJE6I/TiYKLJL__WI/AAAAAAAAEME/8KPhJdKTcd4/s1600/59-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jji_v8rJE6I/TiYKLJL__WI/AAAAAAAAEME/8KPhJdKTcd4/s400/59-8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger version</td></tr>
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Paper-litho transfer prints, found internet images, two-colours, on Arches printmaking paper.Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-31493964722695467512011-07-13T19:37:00.002-05:002011-07-13T19:37:43.093-05:00Astronaut<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>from an imaginary Lucerne travel diary</i></span><br />
<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">who are you staggering towards me in what looks like an astronaut’s suit the kind that you used to see on grainy black and tv images of the apollo mission in the nineteen seventies yet you can’t be an astronaut because there is a line of people standing behind you watching with grins on their faces like this is some sort of show and in the background the old wooden bridge with the round tower in the middle the upper parts of the buildings on the opposite bank of the river glistening in the bright air damp from a recent shower</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qh2NV7AW_8o/Th46MPI0RuI/AAAAAAAAEHo/2SwGzhLu92g/s1600/043011133849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="76" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qh2NV7AW_8o/Th46MPI0RuI/AAAAAAAAEHo/2SwGzhLu92g/s320/043011133849.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-18120668289276532842011-06-21T16:00:00.000-05:002011-06-21T16:00:00.264-05:00Reading from The Lucerne Project<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">On Monday evening, I read some of the imaginary Lucerne travel diary and projected some of the prints at the Interlochen Writer's Retreat in northern Michigan:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0BaB022QTuQ/TgCjtauf5JI/AAAAAAAAD6M/4kpQo_0IGf0/s1600/reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0BaB022QTuQ/TgCjtauf5JI/AAAAAAAAD6M/4kpQo_0IGf0/s320/reading.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was in the company of two great writers, Anne-Marie Oomen and <a href="http://patriciaannmcnair.com/">Patricia Ann McNair</a>.</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-41375187341174605662011-06-13T11:00:00.000-05:002011-06-13T11:00:08.037-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: slideshow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/oV6h1beKRU4?rel=0" width="480"></iframe></div></div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-51130035415208586002011-06-11T18:37:00.000-05:002011-06-11T18:37:41.978-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s3chYsVPrpw/TfP8B1h9ZaI/AAAAAAAAD1o/lMQe3yXIxbQ/s1600/DSCF0412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s3chYsVPrpw/TfP8B1h9ZaI/AAAAAAAAD1o/lMQe3yXIxbQ/s400/DSCF0412.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger image</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Found internet images printed using paper-litho transfer technique on Rives paper, each page 4.5 inches x 6 inches.</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-15874391883585703662011-06-05T18:32:00.001-05:002011-06-06T09:48:23.494-05:00'The Lucerne Project': forthcoming exhibition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9tbKNYXUwlU/TezobRQDt8I/AAAAAAAADzc/Z2t44XC1Fb4/s1600/01+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9tbKNYXUwlU/TezobRQDt8I/AAAAAAAADzc/Z2t44XC1Fb4/s320/01+-+Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">100 page accordion book using images of<br />
Lucerne found on the internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br />
Last week, I formally accepted an offer to exhibit materials from The Lucerne Project at a gallery in Chicago, this coming October, 2011. Below is a short description of the exhibition:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><b>Title</b>: The Lucerne Project</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><b>Venue</b>: <a href="http://www.finestraartspace.com/">Finestra Art Space</a> (link), The Fine Arts Building, Michigan Avenue, Chicago.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><b>Brief description</b>: Artist Philip Hartigan documents personal narratives about people he’s never met, in a place he’s never been, using artist’s books, written narrative, animation, and a blog.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><b>Short artist’s statement</b>: I make art based on personal narrative, using 'damaged photos' which I transform into prints, books, objects. Often the personal narrative is my own, based on memories of growing up in a mining town in the north of England. Sometimes I use the personal narratives of other people. The Lucerne Project is an extension of this. It starts from the fact that Chicago, USA, where I now live, and Lucerne, Switzerland, are sister cities. I asked myself the question: how would I make a personal narrative about people I've never met, in a city I've never been to?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><b>Special event</b>: For one evening during October (date to be announced), there will be an interactive event in which visitors to the gallery will be asked to select a pre-printed postcard, and send it to someone in Lucerne,Switzerland, using a list of publicly-available names and addresses. Some of the postcards will have images of Chicago on them; some will be blank for participants to draw their own picture. The reverse of the postcard will have space to write a greeting, and to write the address of the recipient in Lucerne.</span></span></div></div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-585714963944017922011-05-28T16:26:00.002-05:002011-05-28T20:00:44.388-05:00The Old Couple<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 9.35pt; margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">from an imaginary Lucerne diary</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 9.35pt; margin-top: 6pt;">The weather turned cold today, the sort of cold with a bite in the air that you can feel on your skin the moment you step out of the hotel. I went out for a walk in the morning, encouraged by the bright blue sky. The small street cleaning machines were whirring through the gutters like blind mechanical insects. Above the square, pigeons fluttered towards the ledges of the upper storeys, were repelled by the coils of copper wire placed there to deter them, and fluttered away again over the trees that guarded the centre of the square. I picked up a newspaper from the kiosk on the corner, and a coffee from the bistro nearby, then headed down for the hundredth time towards the river.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 9.35pt; margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I’m sure I’m not the only person who, when they spend some time in a different city, carves out their own set of places they go to regularly: the same café in the morning, the same restaurant in the evening, the same route they like to take. I was approaching my favourite place to read the newspaper—a wooden bench on the St. Karli Quai, with a name plate on the back dedicated to an old Jewish couple who died in World War II—but I saw, with a slightly petulant feeling, that it was already occupied. A very old man and his very old wife were huddled shoulder to shoulder on the bench. I assumed they were married, I don’t know why. Maybe because they wore the same dark brown overcoats, fluffy Russian hats, and expensive Italian shoes. When I came round towards the railing and glanced at them from the side, I could see that they were holding hands, pointing things out that they saw on the water, leaning in to tell each other things, and looking at each other and smiling in response. My annoyance at their taking my favourite bench gave way to a feeling of wonder at how sweet they appeared. To be so old, and possibly married for so long, and yet to still take pleasure in each other’s company. I envied them, and realized that they were making me feel rather lonely.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 9.35pt; margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I opened my newspaper and pretended to read it for a while, waiting to see whether they would move on. But they stayed, occasionally falling silent, but still holding hands, the man squeezing the woman’s fingers, she reaching over and patting his upper arm. Finally, after maybe ten minutes, there was a quick gust of frozen air from out over the lake, and it began to snow. They stood up, clutching their fluffy Russian hats to their heads, and walked off towards the north. I walked the other way, back towards the bridge, wondering if I would be lucky enough to reach my seventies with the companionship of someone who loved me.</span></div></div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-57290052648081403162011-05-25T18:32:00.000-05:002011-05-25T18:32:50.041-05:00The 100 page accordion book: assembled<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Here is a collage of images of the 100 page accordion book of Lucerne project prints, including a custom made clam-shell box. Click on the image to display a much larger version:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qBSiCLJQhBQ/Td2RfiDx2-I/AAAAAAAADvY/PN-yaecSB6M/s1600/100+page+accordion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qBSiCLJQhBQ/Td2RfiDx2-I/AAAAAAAADvY/PN-yaecSB6M/s400/100+page+accordion.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-74736460818711151832011-05-14T16:59:00.000-05:002011-05-14T16:59:29.337-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 29<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wH5Wv6MCn0s/Tc77DW2o8qI/AAAAAAAADrk/kSJwCWb8rCo/s1600/Acc-5-7-a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wH5Wv6MCn0s/Tc77DW2o8qI/AAAAAAAADrk/kSJwCWb8rCo/s320/Acc-5-7-a.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger version</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Medium: found images, paper-litho transfer on Arches printmaking paper, 4.5" x 18"</span></div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-77522675760268113142011-05-10T16:47:00.000-05:002011-05-10T16:47:42.743-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 28<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mRQJtEpSZ9Y/TcmyL99WJ0I/AAAAAAAADrg/OEM1soazxpY/s1600/Acc-5-7-c.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mRQJtEpSZ9Y/TcmyL99WJ0I/AAAAAAAADrg/OEM1soazxpY/s400/Acc-5-7-c.JPG" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click image to display larger version</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Medium: found images, paper-litho transfer on Rives printmaking paper, 4.5" x 18"</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-52639578146322733492011-05-08T09:54:00.000-05:002011-05-08T09:54:07.873-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 27<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MnHlcFstjM8/TcauI_UZ8YI/AAAAAAAADqo/dYlmzcpykj8/s1600/Acc-5-7-b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MnHlcFstjM8/TcauI_UZ8YI/AAAAAAAADqo/dYlmzcpykj8/s400/Acc-5-7-b.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click on image to display larger version</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Medium: found images, paper-litho transfer on Rives printmaking paper, 4.5" x 18"</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-23147387878020209842011-05-05T13:09:00.001-05:002011-05-05T13:09:00.701-05:00A different perspective<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>from an imaginary Lucerne diary.</i></span><br />
</span><br />
I was working in the back office, filing the paperwork from yesterday’s comings and goings at the hotel, when I heard the bell ring at the front desk. I finished what I was writing and dropped the pen down onto the ledger. The pen rolled into a small paper cup of water and knocked it over on the page. I grabbed some tissues from my handbag and frantically dabbed at the spreading puddle, but some of the water had already smudged the figures in the ‘Bills Paid’ column. The bell rang again. I knew I had to look welcoming to any visitor to the hotel, but I was feeling annoyed as I stepped through the door into the small reception area. I tried to smile, but I was aware that I was frowning as I said: “Can I help you?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A man was standing in the narrow hallway in front of the counter. He was thin and bald, and wore black glasses with a thick frame, and black clothes. He seemed nervous, his eyes moving quickly from side to side, never quite meeting mine. He asked me is a certain guest was still staying at the hotel. I recognized the name: I had been processing his credit card payment only minutes earlier. For all I knew it was his name that was dissolving on the untended ledger. The thought of the ledger being spoiled, of having to do a morning’s work all over again, of explaining what I’d done to the hotel owner, who said that there was no such thing as an honest mistake, only a sackable offense—all this made my blood rise, and I felt myself blushing hotly.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It was clear to me that not only was this stranger not looking for a room, but that he didn’t know the person he was asking for. I decided to tell him nothing more, but to wait for him to leave. I noticed that he was glancing at my breasts, and I was suddenly conscious of how the t-shirts the hotel staff were made to wear were very tight. I shifted from one foot to another, and clasped my left elbow with my right hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Can I help you with anything else?” I said. He mumbled something I didn’t catch, and backed towards the front door. When he’d gone, I took out my cellphone and started to type a text to my boyfriend about this creep who had asked weird questions and stared at my tits. But then I remembered the spilled water and the unfinished paperwork. “Scheisse,” I said, and went back through the swing door into the office.</span><br />
</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5923896796241468442.post-66889011475294254162011-05-04T16:25:00.001-05:002011-05-04T16:25:00.130-05:00From a 100-page accordion book: 26<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fvT8cOK5RyU/TcBy1D1kX5I/AAAAAAAADoY/Qt7QS_TzQWA/s1600/043011132210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="90" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fvT8cOK5RyU/TcBy1D1kX5I/AAAAAAAADoY/Qt7QS_TzQWA/s320/043011132210.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to display larger version</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Medium: found images, paper-litho transfer on Rives printmaking paper, 4.5" x 18"</div>Philip Hartiganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11281335628515014371noreply@blogger.com0